


retell the stories of our lives

by summerstorm



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Plot What Plot, s02e24
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to 2.24, If These Dolls Could Talk. No plot, just self-indulgent post-that-thing-with-Mona porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	retell the stories of our lives

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will finish an episode-related fic before the following episode airs, but this is not that fic.

Of course, the next time Hanna sees Caleb, his second question is, "Did it work?" If lying to Mona was frustrating, lying to Caleb is impossible. Hanna doesn't do it. She refuses to.

(The first thing he asks is if she's okay, because Garrett got arrested and he doesn't know about the doll shop but she's still pretty shaken up. She says she's fine, as fine as anyone can be under the circumstances, about that and about anything else he may be wondering about. Like, she really doesn't feel like hashing out her feelings on the fact that he made out with Mona and everything surrounding that event, and if they can just skip that part, she'll live.)

"It may have," Hanna says flatly, dodging his eyes by looking at the coffee-maker instead and pouring herself a cup.

" _May_ have," he echoes, with that look like he knows perfectly well Hanna's skirting around the truth and it would be cute if the situation wasn't so serious.

"There are doubts." She rolls her eyes.

"I don't know why you can't tell me who you think might be behind this. You obviously suspect a few people, and I'm kind of lost beyond Jenna and Garrett."

Hanna takes a deep breath, puts her coffee mug down and turns around, leaning back against the counter. "Look, it's just—weird, okay? There's a lot of connections and stuff. It's not just pointing fingers, it's pointing guns. It's pointing guns at explosives. Which could blow up and hurt a lot of people who don't really deserve it—"

"Okay, I get it."

She sighs and tries to smile. "I know." She reaches out a hand, motioning him over, and he crosses the distance between them so quickly it feels like his fingers were always laced with hers. "First kiss post Mona?" she suggests, and he breathes out a laugh, his eyes closing with it.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about that." His voice is clipped.

"Not _necessarily_ ," she says, "but I don't want to dodge it on purpose. That seems like a bad idea too." She gives a little shrug, and he raises an eyebrow at her, a little tilt of his head before he leans down to kiss her. It's just a peck at first, like he's going to pull back immediately, but he seems to change his mind. Before she knows it, she's standing on her toes and holding onto the edge of the countertop, her body leaning up into him; there's a big hand on the small of her back, over her sweater, and another on her hips, gravitating downward. The skin on the inside of her thighs is vibrating in anticipation, which is—"Wait," she says, only it comes out slurred, consonants lost and vowels bumping off his lips. She breaks away further and tries again. "Wait, I'm not—" She lowers her voice, because her mom is upstairs, hopefully sleeping, but Hanna's not taking any chances. "We should go upstairs."

"What about Emily?"

"She stayed over at Spencer's."

"Why didn't you?" he says, sounding genuinely curious.

She shrugs. There's no real one reason. Emily's sleeping over at Spencer's because of Hanna, in a way, because Hanna said she didn't want Spencer to be alone in the house with Melissa. There wasn't really a _discussion_. Hanna would have made Spencer more nervous, probably. None of which he can tell Caleb, if they're keeping their suspicions about Melissa under wraps for now.

"You can't shut me up with sex forever," Caleb says. He's smiling a little, choosing the amused route.

"Worth a try," Hanna says. "Plus, it's fun."

Neither of them moves, though, and after a while Hanna cracks up, pressing her mouth shut to keep from making noise. Her eyes water with it, her whole body shaking, and Caleb just grins at her, that look that makes her feel like there's a spotlight shining on her, like she's all anyone can look at in a five-mile radius.

It sobers her up; her chest is heaving now, but she's silent without trying, the natural state her body slides into after a laughing fit. He draws a stray bit of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering along her neck, and she stands on her toes to kiss him again. She stops being aware of herself long enough that she doesn't register her shorts being opened until they almost slide right down to the floor. She catches them halfway to her knees, holds them up because they're still in the kitchen and she doesn't want to stop but her clothes need to stay on, or as close to on as possible.

_Move, we should move_ , she tries to say, meaning the living room, outside, her room, anywhere with a locked door, but the words get stuck in her throat. There's a hand on her stomach, rough fingertips edging past the elastic of her underwear, and Caleb is murmuring things with his lips on the end of her jaw, his teeth scraping her earlobe. She doesn't need the encouragement; she just doesn't want to get caught, let alone by her mom. They're not in full view of the staircase, but it's a close thing.

Her hips buck into it anyway when he slips his hand into her underwear, palm cupping Hanna, not really touching her yet. "We can't do this here," she whines, as quietly as possible. He pulls away, glancing down—at his twisted wrist, the glimpses of coarse light hair where her underwear is stretched to go around his knuckles—before looking directly at her. The hand that's not inside her underwear curls around the edge of the countertop, and all he does for a few seconds is breathe; she can hear it, it's so quiet she can even hear the scratch of her nails against her shorts, and she's not even moving. 

Then he licks his lips absently and says, "Keep an ear out," and tightens his grip on the counter for leverage, she figures, when he drops to his knees. It's easy for him to say; he's not the one who's exposed in a kitchen with no doors. No, he's the one who's doing the exposing, dragging Hanna's shorts and underwear down around her shins so she can part her legs, so he can drop kisses up the inside of her thighs.

"I was supposed to be thanking you," she whispers, accusatory, the last argument she has left that she wants to voice.

"You are," he says. It's practically a groan, and so close to her cunt it sends a shiver through her. She shuts her eyes tight for a second, then opens them again, wide, trying to stay awake and focused. It can be done. She's had some mind-blowing orgasms while hyperaware of her surroundings, ever since the whole A thing started. Sometimes it's really hard to shake the feeling that someone is watching, or will be if she's not quiet enough.

She bites down on her lip to keep from whimpering when his tongue brushes her clit. He's got two fingers nearly inside her, the tips of them dipping in and out, making her slick all over. His face is buried between her legs, but he's not eating her out, not yet, just pressing his lips and nose against her while he spreads her out with his fingers. 

She holds harder onto the counter, because otherwise she'll grab his head and she needs to not be doing anything right now. Doing something would be too distracting.

"Don't draw it out," she says in a low, thin voice. "This is making me nervous."

"I'm not," he mutters, at least that's what it sounds like, and what it also sounds like is a lie, because he is.

She's ready to tell him that, but then he licks softly at her, deliberate, and what comes out of her mouth instead is a drawn-out _Please_. She hears the hitch in his breath at that, and she's glad she said it. She's even gladder when he works those fingers inside her and closes his lips around her clit and sucks.

One of her hands is on his head before she registers that she's moving, and it's hard to let go now; her legs feel halfway between unmovable and like jelly, and he keeps making these low, unconscious pleased sounds through his nose that make something curl in her stomach and her fingers clench in his hair.

He moves away for a second, nosing at her hipbone, his fingers stilling partway inside her, and she feels frozen in place, her thighs tense, her belly so tight it almost hurts. She can't seem to close her mouth, or say anything, so she just looks at him, too stunned to show annoyance or anger, until he meets her eyes.

With a nod, he says, "All safe now," like he was listening now she was distracted, just in case, and then he pulls his fingers out of her, sucks them into his mouth, and goes back to what he was doing before, with more intent now, giving Hanna no time at all to recover from the way her brain pretty much just shorted out. She forces herself to swallow and flattens her palm against his scalp, doesn't push, doesn't grab, just lets her hips rock a little until they still on their own and he sucks a little harder on her clit and she, fuck, she lets go, her eyelids heavy and hot, that building pleasure bursting into waves.

He's on his feet when she opens her eyes, one hand on her waist, the other fisting her sweater. Her shorts are done up and he's mouthing at her neck, his breath warm. The skin over her collarbone feels damp with sweat.

"Okay," she says, the word sticky, and nods a little, mostly to herself. He pulls her closer and steps backwards, dragging her along with him until he hits the kitchen island.

"I can't feel my knees," he says, and kisses her before she can respond, lazy and wet and tasting like her.

Hanna snorts when he breaks away. "That is not my fault."

"Didn't say it was." He opens his mouth again, like he's going to say something else, but then he just unzips his jeans, his eyes closing tight for a moment. "Still want to move?" He swallows visibly, and she blinks, then shakes her head no.

"We're already here," she says dismissively, "we can just..." She trails off, but it's enough of an okay for Caleb to push his pants and underwear down and wrap a hand around his dick. It looks like an easy slide, the tip shiny with precome, and she just watches for a little while. It always takes her longer than is really considerate to make up her mind, and for some reason he defaults to her a lot more often than he asks for something, so they settled on this a while ago—she likes to watch him jerk off, likes the feeling of being let in on something like that as a matter of fact. Sometimes she gets so into it she just watches him the whole way through, which is how she knows for a fact he gets off on it. It works out.

Right now, though, right now he's almost shaking, and his hand is unsteady, and she's kneeling down before she knows it. She doesn't get to go down on him nearly as often as she wants to; her face always gets sweaty and her make-up runs and it's just not pretty. But she doesn't have anywhere to go right now. She's not even wearing that much make-up.

The floor is cold and really hard, so she takes off her sweater and folds it under her bare knees. She looks up at him. She has a tank top on, but the neckline falls about as high as her bra. It's possible she sticks out her chest a little just to see him stare. Maybe. 

But that's not what she's on the floor for. She covers his hand with hers until he stops moving it, and she leans forward with no fuss, no teasing, because she doesn't think he can wait much longer and her knees are already complaining. She sucks the head of his cock into her mouth, humming a little, and he says her name in a thin voice, some cross between warning and begging. 

It's still a little awkward, doing this; she's too conscious of her gag reflex to swallow him down, so she goes slow, covers what her mouth won't with her hand—with his hand, this time, moving with hers. Her lips brush his knuckles every now and then when she starts bobbing her head, and he touches his thumb to the corner of her mouth a few times, making her look up unconsciously. His hips jerk and she remembers her knees, remembers where they are, remembers how little it takes to make him come after he goes down on her. 

It's no different this time; she takes over his hand when he lets go, his hand touching her cheek instead, her jaw, and it's not long before he gives her hair a little tug as a warning. She sucks him harder, and keeps her lips tight around the head as he comes, swallowing as well as she can, stroking him softly through it.

She picks her sweater off the floor and stands, tosses the sweater on the kitchen island, stretches her knees by standing on her toes. "It's kind of annoying that you don't even have to make an effort to stay quiet," she tells him.

He breathes out a laugh, but he doesn't answer. He just forces his eyes open—it really seems like it takes a lot out of him just to do that—and looks around. He doesn't make any comments about Hanna's concerns about getting caught being unfounded or anything; he just stares at her for a few seconds, and then says, "You have come on your—" His thumb reaches for the corner of her lips, and she catches it in her mouth, licks it clean.

"You're still kind of naked," she tells him, in case he hasn't noticed, and he nods solemnly at her before breaking into a smile and getting dressed. She takes the chance to wash her hands in the kitchen sink, then peers into the living room and up the staircase, just to—well, make sure there's no one around, which is silly because she would have heard, but it helps her relax, makes her paranoia dissipate. "That was a really bad idea," she says before turning back into the kitchen.

"In retrospect," Caleb adds. It sounds like agreement.

"Sure," Hanna says, "in retrospect." She leans an elbow on the kitchen island. "It was scary. We should try not to do it again."

"That's the least resolute resolution I've heard in a while," he says. "If I said that you'd be telling me I'm not taking it seriously enough."

"Well, yeah. But you didn't. I did. So." She shrugs, because whatever, sometimes things seem like good ideas at the time, and Hanna's not big on regretting things that turned out well just because they were bad decisions. 

Caleb takes a few steps toward her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I told you, I'm fine," she says. "I mean, I'm not _fine_ , but I'm doing okay. No freak-outs that can't wait until morning." She tilts her head and smiles at him, her voice softening when she says, "Go home, I'll see you tomorrow," and leans up to kiss him goodbye.


End file.
